Sunset On Roses Poem by Mark Heathcote

The sunset on roses is a pang to my heart
when the night closes in with the wind
when the rain thunders and even the moon is drowned
in the spilt ashes of white and yellow stars,
swept up from the ground.
And in the morning,

the freshening light is too profound too,
bright for the mourners of lost love,
who now remain fearful of a future time
can't bear to step outdoors amongst the muck and look.
Yet, disconsolate, there are always more buds
on the bough laughing with irony to be found.

But not so meaningful as the talon bruises of one
whose blood will never soak the ground?